


Cold Comfort

by Dragonfly



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Neal!whump, Podfic Welcome, h/c, hypothermia!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonfly/pseuds/Dragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an operation goes bad, Neal has to escape through freezing water.  When Peter finds him, it's vital that he get him warm and dry right away.  Snuggling ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> 10/19/2010 Added: Now! With new beta by china shop! Just call the number on your screen ...
> 
> This was first posted as a fill at the collarkink kinkmeme on LiveJournal. The prompt was for hypothermia snuggling.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in White Collar. I'm just making them very cold.

Cold Comfort by Dragonfly

Neal knew the moment his cover was blown. He knew from tiny tells that the buzzing cell phone surprised Mencia, and from even more subtle ones that the unexpected message boded ill for one Nick Halden, prospective purchaser of illicit antiquities. He'd placed the bug in the boat's wheelhouse – that would have to do. He needed to escape.

He set down his champagne glass, but couldn't go anywhere near the short ramp to the muddy shore or near the sides of the boat – not with Mencia so obviously pretending not to watch him. He wandered belowdeck instead, as if looking for the head, letting the small celebration continue without him. Now that he'd placed the bug, he had no comm to Peter and the surveillance van. He considered trying a phone call, but his every instinct yelled that he had very little time. He had utter faith in those instincts. Besides, any second now, someone would notice that the gold Inca statuette had just vanished from its place of honor at the party. He'd have to save himself.

\---

Peter was uneasy. They'd been forced to park the surveillance van where the pavement ended in a warehouse district, but the "yacht" where Neal had been invited to view the item was hundreds of yards away across sloping ice and mud. The winter night was bitterly cold and dark and the yacht – actually a commercial fishing boat of uncertain license -- was tenuously moored along a piece of Jersey shoreline so steep and treacherous that no shipping company had attempted to build docks there. The lights of the greater New York City area twinkled beyond inky water, and farther out yet, felt but not seen, the ocean offered escape to the thieves on the boat. Neal had ingratiated himself with this particular bunch of antiquities dealers for a week with no reason to suspect any trouble, but if Peter could have, he would have ordered Neal to find an excuse to skip the party when he saw its location. Neal was too accustomed to working without a net, by himself, to give much thought to his backup's problems.

Peter sat in the drafty van listening with Jones to the thieves toasting their good fortune and reflected that at least Neal still wore the anklet. It had occurred to Peter that a Marshal's tracking anklet could serve as a credential to this flavor of criminal. So Nick Halden had a conviction for possessing stolen property, big deal. Who didn't? Clearly he was a minimum security parolee on a wide radius, so the Feds must not be too concerned about him. Neal offered no objection to the arrangement, and Peter suspected that he'd thought of that before and just failed to bring it up.

He envied Neal having some warmth on the boat; even when he and Jones ran the engine briefly, the van didn't warm up enough for them to take off their coats. Their hands were freezing, so they wore gloves and removed them when they had to manipulate equipment. Thank God for thermos coffee.

Peter sat up and glanced at Jones when he heard, "What are you doing, man?" from one of Mencia's gang. His tone of voice indicated that he wasn't referring to how the canapés were being laid out. A second later came Mencia's voice. "Tommy! Start the engines. Get us out on the water. Do it now."

At Peter's nod, Jones picked up his radio and notified Port Authority. Peter threw on his hat, but both men froze as more orders by Mencia came across the radio. "Where's Halden? Get his ass up here. It's a setup." Peter's heart constricted. This wasn't expected to be a take-down, so he and Jones had no backup in place besides the Port Authority, and they weren't exactly in the area. "Fucking Christ's dick," Mencia screamed, "where's the statuette?"

"Neal, what have you done?" Peter muttered -- not for the first time -- as he and Jones pelted out of the van and raced for the dark shore. An arctic wind knifed through him in seconds, piercing his fear and urgency. Shit, that was cold. He worked a glove free as he ran so he could draw his weapon and every second his bare knuckles were exposed was agony. Their footing on the frozen, sloping mud was treacherous, and Peter hoped fervently he wouldn't have to catch himself with his ungloved hand. The final drop to the water was an icy thirty foot mudslide. He could see Mencia's boat, a shadow against the surface reflections on the water, its huge winches bent up in the stern like a grasshopper's knees. It was pulling away from shore.

\---

Neal found no exit, no window, no porthole in the confined area below decks, but he found the bilge ballast compartment stinking of fish and knew it would have a series of watertight traps leading to the water outside. He couldn't have said how he knew it – he didn't question his certainty any more than he wasted time wondering how his cover had been blown. Sometimes it happened.

The engines of the boat roared to life and he coughed as a cloud of diesel smoke rolled through the compartment. He heard the shouting, and, deeply regretting the warm wool coat he'd left on deck, he lowered himself waist deep in the water. The cold was brutal. Despite the pounding of feet on the stair, he had to pause while he gasped involuntarily. The boat lurched forward. He spotted an orange life jacket discarded within reach as well as a heavy steel tool he didn't recognize, and snatched them both. He got his breathing under control and, wincing in anticipation, ducked in. The shocking cold disoriented him, but his flailing helped batter through the barriers he needed to cross, and, only barely aware of what he was doing, Neal fought free of the boat and into the Upper Bay.

\---

Peter and Jones stood panting on the shore, helpless to do anything about the departing boat. Jones pointed, spotting what took Peter a few moments more to see. "There, do you see that? Is that a life jacket?" He yelled to be heard over the wind.

"I think so," Peter said. The swatch of color floated just beyond the departing boat, giving Peter a moment of hope.

"Think that's Caffrey?" Jones asked.

"Maybe," Peter replied. "I need you back at the van. Call McAlister at Port Authority, then call the Coast Guard. They need to stop that boat. Then bring up Neal's tracking data and tell me where he is. If he's in this water –" Peter looked down at the black waves at his feet. "We're gonna need help. Can you get back up that slope?"

They both looked at the thirty foot rise they'd slid down, and above them, beyond it, the unlit shapes of warehouses. "I'll manage," Jones said.

Before Peter could say any more, gunshots rang out from the boat, pummeling the water near the orange splash of a life vest. Both men jumped and Jones reached for his gun. "No," Peter said. "Get back to the van. I need you there."

Jones headed for the slope and Peter drew his own gun and ran along the shore. When he was sure he was well away from Jones, he yelled, "FBI," for form's sake and began firing at the boat. Consternation aboard, and then shots were fired back at him. He put his back flat against the muddy slope behind him, grateful that he'd drawn their gunshots away from Neal. He didn't shoot again right away; they would see his muzzle flash, and he had no cover. When they paused in their firing, he ran along the shore, trying to catch up. They had cut their engines and were idling in the area of the life jacket. Before Peter could find any cover, the engines started up again and the boat moved briskly out into the Bay, far beyond his reach or vision. The orange splash was gone, too.

"Jones, talk to me. Are you at the van?"

"I'm here, Peter," Jones sounded out of breath "Port Authority will try to catch them at the Verrazano Bridge. I've got Caffrey's data up ..."

"Yeah? Is he on the boat?" Peter had been standing still too long. That vicious wind was about to freeze him into an ice sculpture. His heart already felt like ice. Where was Neal?

"He's not on the boat," Jones said. "He's not moving. It looks like he's –" Peter died a dozen deaths waiting for him to finish. His teeth started to chatter. He pulled up the collar of his coat. "He's on shore. Our shore. He's got to be. Either that or –" Jones stopped himself before he said it.

"Floating very near shore," Peter finished grimly. "Where? Is he north or south from me? Neal!" he yelled fruitlessly into the wind.

Jones sounded frustrated. "If you were wearing a tracker, I could tell you. I don't know where you are."

Peter started jogging, for warmth and to cover some ground, whether or not it was the right ground. "I'm south from where you left me."

"Well, so is Caffrey. He's still not moving."

Peter swore and kept moving south. "Neal!" he yelled again and again.

Peter's night vision was improving with time. How long had it been since he'd left the van? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? He turned and jogged back along the shore toward where he'd begun. As he drew breath to demand more information from Jones, he saw movement. Ahead, where the water met the mud, a shape huddled in the dark. Peter would have already passed it once. "Neal?" It was Neal. He was on his hands and knees, his legs still in the wind-whipped waves from his knees down. "Neal!" Peter bellowed in relief, and slid to a messy halt on one knee next to him. "Jones, I've found him."

"Neal, are you all right? Are you hurt? Are you shot?" Peter reached a gloved hand out to rest on Neal's back. Neal was shaking profoundly. He lifted his head but said nothing. Peter thought his eyes were closed, but it was hard to say beneath the thick dark hair plastered to his face. Peter swore as he slid his arm along Neal's back and gripped him under the opposite armpit. Neal didn't flinch at the pressure, so Peter guessed he wasn't badly injured. He was as soaked as a sock in a puddle, though, and Peter's contact made no change to his violent shivering.

"I've got him. I think he's unhurt, but –" Peter's mind whirled. Freezing to death was something he just didn't consider as an ordinary job risk, not in the middle of New York City with a surveillance van a half a mile away, but he flashed on the brief survival training he'd had fifteen years ago at Quantico. The most common cause for the non-homeless to die of exposure was from what they called "failure to recognize a survival situation." This was, without question, a survival situation. How cold was that water? 35 degrees, 40 degrees? How long had Neal been in it? 10, maybe 15 minutes? Except for his legs, he was out of the water now, but in a knifing cold wind, and half a mile from help.

"We have to get him warm and dry." Peter glanced around. "Right now."

"Copy that. I've called 911."

"Good. I'll get back to you." Neal's shaking arms collapsed at the elbows and he would have pitched forward if Peter hadn't been holding him. "Neal, can you stand?" Neal moved his head in response and tried to say something that might have been Peter's name, but he was shaking too hard to get it out. "C'mon, Neal, get up. We need to walk. You have to get out of the water." Peter lifted and dragged. Neal moved, but had no coordination and very little strength. He was almost a dead, if shaking, weight. Peter had to get Neal out of the water and out of the wind. He wanted to put his own coat on him, but he was afraid to let go of him to take it off. He needed to get Neal dry. For now, he settled for taking his own warm winter hat off and one-handedly shoving it onto Neal's wet head.

He thought hard, looking for shelter. The warehouses might or might not be heated, but they were all at the top of that impossible mud and ice slope. The slope might level out along the shore somewhere, but they didn't have time to go hunting for it. Wait! Hadn't he seen a small structure like a sheltered bus stop back there? Some kind of boat slip roof over a tiny jetty. "This way, Neal," he said. "Stay with me. Can you walk? C'mon, it's not far." Peter told Jones where to find them as they made slow progress toward the shelter. Neal moved his legs, but seemed to have no motor control below the knees. When they reached the concrete structure, Peter found the shore side had a locked metal door. Still holding Neal, he kicked with all the adrenaline of his leashed panic, and the door smashed open. In seconds they were through the door and out of the wind.

Things seemed instantly better. Losing the wind was a relief. The noise level dropped, so he could actually talk to Neal and learn how bad off he was. Neal, too, made a relieved sound and stiffened despite his shivering as if he'd found some new strength. The only down side was that it was even darker in the structure than it had been outside. Peter headed for the nearest corner and set Neal down gently. "Here, Neal," he murmured. Neal crumpled into the corner, still shaking like china next to a subway. Peter took off his coat and FBI windbreaker and draped them over him. It would do for now, he needed to search around.

His survey proved disappointing. The ten by twelve concrete structure held nothing. The floor was dirt and only existed near the side walls and door; the center of the room was water that led out the large opening in the fourth, bay-side, wall. Peter closed the metal door, its weight sufficient to hold against the wind, and released a tarp that was rolled up above the large opening. It fell like blinds and secured itself somehow. Good enough. He returned to Neal and hunkered down, missing his coat, since even without the wind the night's cold bit sharp. "Neal, talk to me. Are you all right? What happened?"

"J-j-jacket," Neal answered.

"Jacket? What about it?" Since it made no sense to Peter, he proceeded with what he needed to do. "Help is on the way," he said, "but we've got to get you as warm and dry as possible, now. Let's get your jacket off of you." In the dark he couldn't see Neal's face very well, so he couldn't be sure if Neal understood him. Neal did lean forward, though, to help Peter get the suit jacket off. It felt heavy as Peter set it aside, and he thought he knew why. Neal's impeccable white shirt gleamed in the gloom, but it was sodden to Peter's hands. "C-c-cold," Neal complained, immense pain in the word. Neal still leaned toward him, and Peter realized he was the only source of warmth in Neal's vicinity. All right, then.

He unbuttoned Neal's shirt, trying to remember what he could of hypothermia symptoms and treatment. There was something to do with charts of victims' core body temperatures but Peter had no way to measure that. Neal continued shivering, which at least wasn't any change for the worse. The cold, soaked material right on Neal's core couldn't be a good thing, so Peter struggled to remove Neal's tie and shirt, while still keeping the coat more or less over him. Neal shook and squirmed close to Peter, so as soon as the shirt was free, Peter wrapped his arms around him and pulled Neal in to where Neal was leaning against him instead of against the cold concrete. Peter's coat went over them both.

Neal made no objection, and Peter wouldn't have allowed any anyway. Neal tucked his bare arms up between his own chest and Peter's, but it wasn't a rejection. If anything, Neal snuggled more closely. Peter rubbed gently up and down his wet back. It was better, but they were still anything but warm.

"Where – is warm?" Neal asked.

"What?" Peter asked, surprised. He had to guess at what Neal meant, but at least he'd spoken a complete sentence. "Nowhere, yet, Neal. You've just got to hang on a little longer, all right?"

Neal moved his head in a nod.

"Neal, are you hurt anywhere?" Peter felt around Neal in the dark, searching for injury, searching for discomfort he might ease. He found the still sodden suit pants Neal wore, and wondered if he should try to get him out of them, too.

"Ev-v-rywhere h-hurts." Peter nodded. So, whether he had some smaller injury or not, Neal himself wasn't aware of anything specific.

Someone wrenched at the damaged metal door. Jones blew in and body-checked the door shut behind him. Peter saw him pause in the increased darkness. "Over here," he called. "I think he's all right, but he hasn't stopped shivering."

Jones moved cautiously toward them, and crouched down. "That's good, right?" he said. "Here, I brought what I could find." Something in his hand glinted silvery.

"Yeah, it could be worse, I think, but he's also not getting any better. What have you got?"

The silvery stuff made a crinkling sound as Jones opened it. "The first aid kit had these space blankets," he said.

"Good. Put one on the ground here for insulation."

Jones spread the foil next to Peter. "I've always wondered if these things really work," he said.

"Me too," Peter admitted. He felt strangely loath to release Neal, but he had to get the man onto the blanket. "C'mere, Neal. Over here," he said, dislodging himself.

"N-no, 'sokay," Neal stuttered, reaching for Peter.

It was upsetting to see the normally hale and mischievous Neal brought down so quickly and severely. "You get his feet," Peter said. Jones groped for Neal's ankles while Peter gripped his underarms. Neal made a protesting sound, but he didn't struggle. The two men shifted him onto the blanket. Peter promptly dropped his coat over Neal's pale torso again.

"You took off his shirt?" Jones asked.

"We've got to get him dry," Peter said.

"Here," Jones said, pressing something into Peter's hands. "These are the rags Cruz used to plug up the drafts in the van."

"Good. That's good." In fact, Peter was delighted to have something more concrete to do. The cold without his coat was starting to get to him, too. "Was there anything else in the van?"

"Just the paper towels we brought with the coffee." Jones produced them from somewhere.

"Okay. How far away are EMTs?" On the foil blanket next to him, Peter found that Neal had curled into himself, lying on his side. Peter started running the rags over Neal's shaking back and shoulders.

"I don't know," Jones said, sounding worried. "I gave them the street address we had for the industrial park, but those guys will have to drive around up there just to find the van. And that cliff we came down – they'll have to get him up that." Peter winced at the time and effort it would cost Neal back out in that wind.

"You can get back up it though," Peter said. "Here's what I want you to do. Go back to the van in case the EMTs find you; you can tell them where we are. But look, we're right on the water. What we need is a water rescue. Call the Coast Guard and MacAlister. They can get in here in this boat slip."

"You think they can find this little building?"

"They have GPS. You're going to give them Neal's anklet location."

"Right." Jones held something out. "Okay, here's the other space blanket. I'll leave you my coat, too."

Peter only gave that two seconds of thought. "No, you keep it. You're our link to getting help for Neal. No point in three of us going hypothermic. That van isn't any too warm, either." They couldn't move Neal, so Peter would have to concentrate on keeping Neal from getting any worse while the first responders out there figured out how to reach them.

Jones left to return to the van. Peter unfolded the second space blanket and lay close to Neal. Neal scooted into him. His chest and arms were now passably dry. "Neal, I want you to put on my sweater," Peter said, wriggling out of it. Beneath it, he wore long underwear. Neal said nothing, and gave Peter little help getting it on.

Peter covered the two of them with the second space blanket and moved his coat to the outside of the foil over Neal. He leaned over Neal to tuck the blanket in under him. He hesitated when he felt again how soaked Neal's suit pants were. He now had some rags to dry him with. "Neal, we're taking your pants off."

"N-no," Neal protested. His shaking was so violent he was bunching up the light blanket beneath him. He might be causing tears in the insulating material between him and the cold ground -- Peter couldn't tell in the dark.

"You'll be warmer once we get you dry," Peter said, unbuckling Neal's belt.

"Y-you have t-to b-buy me d-dinner first."

Peter snorted, more with relief than at the joke. "C'mon, help me out, here. Lift your butt." Neal tried, but didn't have enough muscle control or strength to hold the position very long. Peter had a difficult wrestle to peel the plastered trousers down over Neal's briefs, but eventually he shoved them to below Neal's knees. They caught there on the tracker's bulge. Peter patted Neal's trembling legs down with the paper towels, then, cold and needing a rest, Peter discarded the sopping paper towels and wrapped himself around Neal, dragging the space blanket and Peter's coat over them both. Neal gripped him around the waist. Peter tucked Neal's head beneath the space blanket, against his chest. Neal still wore Peter's hat.

Neal's head rose and fell with Peter's chest and he made small pained gasps as he shook. Peter frowned. Neal said everything hurt, but shouldn't he be numb? Could you get frostbite in so little time? He sighed. There was only so much he could do. But he thought of something else.

"Hey," he said gently. He pushed the hat off of Neal's head and pulled out the remaining paper towels.

"Hmm?" Neal asked. Peter felt the sound vibrate his chest.

"I'm going to get your hair." He rubbed the paper towels through Neal's thick hair, wringing the water out.

"Mmmm," Neal said. After a while Peter had his hair no worse than damp and fluffed to most of its normal body. It stuck up at horrible angles, which normally, Neal would find mortifying. Peter placed the hat back on.

Was he imagining it, or did he feel warmer? "Do you still hurt everywhere?" he asked.

"Uh huh," Neal answered.

Damn. "It will get better," he promised.

"I knew you'd f-fix it," Neal said.

"I'm just keeping you warm until help arrives," Peter said.

"N-not very warm."

"Now you're a critic?" Peter asked. "I don't cuddle on the job very often, you know."

"N-not with J-jones?"

"Jones doesn't usually jump into freezing water with no backup available."

"Y-you were here."

"It's a good thing we could find your anklet. I must have gone right by you at least once. I couldn't see you in the dark." It seemed to Peter that Neal's shudders were less violent than they had been. Encouraged, Peter squeezed him harder for a moment.

"W-will you t-tell Eliz-z-abeth?"

"That I snuggled with my CI? Yep. I don't keep secrets from her. It never ends well. You saw."

"Tell her I'm sorry."

Peter cracked a smile in the dark. He was definitely feeling warmer. Apparently those space blankets worked after all. "She'll forgive you."

"S-sorry about the statue, too."

"What do you mean?"

"I l-lost it."

Peter reached out and found Neal's suit jacket. Something besides water had been weighing it down. His hand closed on carved cold metal. "You mean this statuette?" he asked, holding the little idol up. Neal pulled his head away from Peter's chest to peer at it. "I didn't lose it?" He sounded puzzled.

"I don't know how you swam with it. It's solid gold." Peter put it down and re-positioned the blanket.

"I kn-know."

"I know you know. I hope you weren't thinking no one would notice it never showed up. You realize, you probably wore yourself out worse trying to swim with it." Peter softened his words by putting his arm back around Neal.

"I w-was recovering it f-for you." Neal managed to sound offended. "I m-meant to lose it. It was heavy."

"But the cold addled your thinking, I suppose."

"Y-yes."

"All right. We'll go with that."

"S'truth!"

Peter relented. Neal wasn't in good enough shape to read how serious Peter was or wasn't. "Relax. I believe you. You were trying to tell me it was in your jacket when we first got in here, weren't you."

Neal said nothing. His shivers had brief pauses in them, now. Peter thought he could feel Neal thinking.

"Neal?"

"N-no."

"No, what?"

"I thought I l-lost it. I w-was still thinking ab-bout the life jacket."

"Oh." Peter felt moved that Neal bothered to tell him the truth about his thoughts. It would have been easy enough to just lie and say yes. "What about the life jacket?"

"Decoy. I had to stay away from it. W-was still thinking about that."

"I see." In a few minutes Neal had gone from thinking brilliantly about how to draw fire away from himself while he was in the water to being too confused to get rid of the weight on him or to realize he'd made it to land. It chilled Peter to realize how nearly they'd lost Neal. He tucked the space blanket in more securely. "Keep your head down," he said.

The warmth between the space blankets had a clammy feel to it, but Peter wasn't complaining. The cold reached him swiftly after the loss of his sweater. Peter put his own head beneath the blanket, and he and Neal breathed together. Peter smelled alcohol on Neal's breath. Of course, the champagne. That hadn't helped his condition, either.

Neal's shivers subsided to a normal teeth-chattering level. After a while Peter asked, "Are you any warmer?"

"Yeah," Neal said. Peter hoped he wasn't just humoring him, but the damp warmth under the blanket was unmistakable and welcome. Peter's thoughts turned to other things, and he groped to activate the comm in his ear.

"Jones, did they catch Mencia?" he asked.

Jones's voice came through clearly and Peter felt better for it. "The boat never showed up at the bridge, Peter," he said, "but the bug is still broadcasting. I'm trying to help MacAlister's guys pick up its frequency."

"Neal got the statuette out," Peter told him. "We have it here." The recovery of the looted historical treasure, an irreplaceable Incan artifact, was more important than catching the bad guys. Absently, he stroked Neal's back. They had what mattered most.

"The EMTs haven't shown," Jones said, "but the Coast Guard has your GPS position and they say they're about five minutes out. You guys okay?"

"I think so. Five minutes is good. Best news I've heard all day. Five minutes, Neal," Peter said. "You all right?"

"I think – the anklet – will interfere with – my medical care – don't you?" Neal asked.

Peter grinned. "Not in the least," he said. "Nice try."

Peter imagined he heard a smile in Neal's voice. "Ah well. I wasn't – going anywhere – anyway."

In the distance Peter heard the purposeful purring of an approaching engine, the first he'd heard since Mencia's fishing boat departed. He gave Neal an impulsive hug. "No you're not," he told his friend. "Not without me, at any rate."

END


End file.
